


115 - You Don't Have to Walk the Black Dog Alone

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Reader-Insert, mental health
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 16:16:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17429270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: Filling the prompt “could you possibly write about Van fancying a girl and her telling him she had depression/bipolar and then him being there for her during an episode?”





	115 - You Don't Have to Walk the Black Dog Alone

**Author's Note:**

> This one is for all of us that suffer under the weight of mental illness. We shouldn’t have to hurt like this, and if I can distract you from that for a few minutes with this (or any other) fic, then I’ve got a purpose. 
> 
> Warning: Explicit discussion of mental illness, including self-harm and suicide.

When you met Van, it was summer. You were riding the temporary high of holidays, of the sun on your skin, of warm nights, of music festivals. It was the only couple of weeks all year where you had hope you could one day be the person you wanted to be. Simply put, you had hope you could be happy again. It all came crashing down when people returned to work or uni; neither of which were achievable for you to maintain. Nobody had time to sit around with you. People cared, but were painfully ill-equipped to deal with the psychologically unwell. The warmth evaporated from the city, replaced instead with clouds and doom. Bands packed up and left the country. And, like always, the sticky, muddy darkness found its way back home to you.

It was hard to explain to people that didn't know depression what it was like. The best metaphor you found was written in the pages of a picture book that personified it as a black dog. Carrying it around would weigh you down, making you unable to move out of bed, out of the house. It would bark in your ear, rendering your thoughts chaotic and cluttered. It was a constant presence that nobody else could see, or begin to understand. For someone like Van, someone that had never really suffered, you knew if you even began that conversation you'd end up in tears.

It wasn't that he didn't love you, because he did from the moment he saw you. It was that he knew you at your absolute best, and you were terrified to be anything other than that for him. That's why you started to leave his messages unanswered and his calls blocked. You replied just enough to keep him hooked, and you saved all your energy up to see him a couple times a week. It was getting worse though. Kasey started to come over before and help you get dressed and do your makeup. 

"He's messaging me now, Y/N," she told you. "I don't know what to tell him. I know you think you're protecting him from all this, but it's probably weirder just to disappear, you know? He thinks he's done something wrong. He really loves you. You just need to let him in."

You would have laughed out loud if you had the energy. Just. Let. Him. In. Like it was as simple as opening a door. Like you could say 'Hey Van, have a seat. Let me tell you about the time I saved up enough prescription medication to kill three people in a little fucking box under my bed. Or maybe you'd like to hear about the countless friends I've lost because they got tired of my hysterical midnight phone calls, or the months of no communication at all!' 

Van still had faith the world was ultimately good, and that all things would work out. You were barely-living proof that was not the case. 

…

Van showed up unannounced on a Sunday afternoon. He knocked, and you didn't answer. "Y/N?! I know you're home! If you don't want to see me, that's okay, but I just need to know you're alright!" he yelled through the door. You were on the couch. Moving from bed to the couch was a huge achievement. You rewarded yourself by not brushing your teeth or forcing food down your throat. You moved to pick up your phone and message him. It was easier than yelling back. You texted that the door was unlocked.

You prepared yourself for him to walk in and see you lying there at your worst. He'd be confused and leave, and you'd never see him again. That was the script and it was one written in the wake of all the broken up relationships of the past. You closed your eyes and felt a tear roll down your cheek.

Van's footsteps on the floorboards echoed and you heard him come into the room. It was silent; you'd not managed to turn the television on. He crouched down in front of you.

"Y/N?" he spoke softly. You opened your eyes and looked at him. Not remembering when you'd last seen his face, you realised how badly you missed it. His blue eyes were so clear and calming, and he smiled gently at you like he didn't see the mess. "What's going on? Have you been ill?" You nodded small. "Why didn't you just tell me? I'll get my mum to make you some chicken soup. Fixes everythin', yeah?" He went to move, but you spoke before he could. He stopped and watched you carefully.

"Not… Not that kind of sick," you whispered. He rearranged his body to be sitting cross-legged on the floor by the couch. He leant over and brushed hair out of your face. "You should go, Van,"

"I don't want to,"

"I'm tired, I just want to sleep," you said. He nodded and looked around. Following his gaze you saw the stacks of tea cups and the growing pile of unwashed hoodies and sweaters on the arm chair. Sometimes you'd bring the mail in and put it on the coffee table. Unopened bills and junk mail spilt off it, onto the ground. You didn't want to think about the state of the kitchen.

"What kind of sick?" he asked, looking back at you.

"Please don't make me do this,"

"Kasey says I have to just ask you or you'll never tell me," he said. Fuck Kasey and her ability to know exactly how to get you to do something.

"I've just always been sick like this. Since I was a kid,"

"Sick like what?"

"Just… head stuff, you know? I'm just… super fucked up," you said. Being vague would either make it better or worse, but you didn't know which.

"Like, depression?" It hurt to hear the word being said out loud by Van. You wanted him to only ever have to say wonderful, happy things. He was too pure for the muck of your mind.

"Yeah. And some mood stuff. Not balanced right."

He thought for a second, then nodded more to himself than you. He looked at you, leant in, and kissed your forehead. "We can cope with this," he said so sure. It broke your heart. He couldn't though, and you didn't know how to explain that to him.

…

With the guidance of Kasey, Van learnt how to look after you. He figured out ways to coax you out of bed and into the bath. He'd wash your hair, and help you tidy up. You'd sit on the kitchen bench as he did dishes and threw out anything in the fridge that had gone bad. He'd bundle you up in cuddles when you needed, and left you alone in bed when you wanted. He read about distorted patterns of cognition, and was an expert at pointing out flaws in your logic when you were being irrational. He'd never make you feel bad when you couldn’t leave the house, and when you could he would keep a hold of your hand and make sure you were okay.

There was an unseasonably warm day in which you let Van take you to the park for a walk. Your bones felt fragile, but you laughed as he fed the ducks. The sound of him cackling whenever one would eat from his hand became your favourite thing about him. He looked over at you grinning, and you could feel the underlying panic. What if he got sick of this? What if you never got better and he moved on? What if you had an attack?

As Murphy's Law dictates, an attack happened.

You were home alone and started to think about the future. The Future. Capital letters. Trademark emoji. The whole thing. You'd only been with Van for a few months, but he'd already mentioned what he wanted his life to be like. Babies. Offspring. Children. Spawn. You couldn't have fucking babies. You'd infect them with your disease and they'd grow up sad and sick. You couldn't be a housewife when you could hardly take care of yourself. If Van's band worked out, how could you survive months apart? Where was Van anyway? At a club? Talking to girls far less complicated than you? What were the lyrics again? You don't own worries or a chest full of heartache. Is that what he wanted? That's what he deserved. He should have that. It would be easier without you. Easy fucking peasy. Better off without you. Kasey, too. Better off without you. One less thing on their lists of things to worry about. God, you were fucking tired.

You closed your eyes and tried to breath, but there was no more oxygen left for you. The world didn't think you deserved it. With vivid clarity, the idea resurfaced from where it was always lurking in the back of your mind. You started to cry, and watch yourself move around the apartment like you had no control over your body. You popped a couple blood-thinning aspirin and sat on the floor of your bedroom. Back to the wall, you held a blade. When you were a kid, you'd smash them out of your mum's disposable shaving razors, but now you knew where to buy the proper ones. You still mourned for your childhood and your adolescence; both dissolved in the thick acid of untreated depression.

Watching the red, you felt calm. It was a calm that you'd not felt since last time. You were saved that time though. Your mum had found you slumped against the bathtub, a pool forming in the bottom of it. The only other people that knew about that were Kasey and Van. You'd told her when she asked about the scars. You'd told him when he asked why you didn't go back home for help. Your eyelids shut and smiled to yourself, victorious for once.

…

You knew Van was holding your hand before you opened your eyes and looked at him. You could feel the callouses on his skin from his guitar. He was asleep on one side of the hospital bed, and Kasey was asleep on the other. Your mother was pacing at the foot of the bed. She stopped when you stirred.

"You need help, Y/N," she said.

"Really?" you said back sarcastically. You were hurting and alive and it made you angry and bitter. Van woke up and looked at you. He looked exhausted. You chewed your lip, and tears started to fall.

"Baby," he whispered. You took your hand away from his and sat up, using your elbows to push away from the mattress. Both your arms were bandaged, and while you didn't feel it, the wounds were deep enough that they'd start to hurt soon. You'd not be able to do anything for yourself for a while, which made it all worse. Kasey sat up. She was angry, too. You thought she was probably the one that found you.

"What the absolute fuck, Y/N! You said! You promised that if it got this bad again, you'd say something!" she yelled.

"Screamin' at her isn't gonna help," Van said.

"Oh, right, because you're the sudden fucking Y/N Expert. You've known her for, what, six… seven months? I've been keeping her alive for years. Looking out for her better than this one ever fucking did," she pointed to your mum, who responded with shock. "Don't you dare fucking tell me what's going to help, Van. You have no idea what this is like,"

"I found her!" He stood, his chair clattering to the ground. The room went still and silent. His voice lowered to a deadly growl as he said, "I found her bleeding out, Kase. She was nearly fucking dead. I know I'm new to this. I know I don't know her like you do. I'm not fuckin' pretendin' any of that. But it just seems like if she wants to fucking die, then yelling at her that she fucked up is probably not the best idea. She already knows, yeah?"

Kasey breathed out a shaky breath, looked from Van to you, and then left the room. She'd be back, and she'd apologise and so would you. You'd make the same promise, and like the one you would tell your mum about getting help, you would think you meant it.

"Can you go see if she's alright?" you asked your mum. Your mum hated Kasey, but she knew you weren't really asking for her to go find her; just to leave the room. Van sat back down and took your hand again. You were angry at him for saving you, but you were more guilty that you'd ruined some of his sunshine. "I'm so, so fucking sorry, Van," you whispered. "You don't deser-"

"Stop," he cut you off. "Before you tell me the whole 'you deserve someone normal' routine, I just need you to know that I don't give a fuck about normal. I love you. Proper in love. I told you that we could cope, and we're both here, so we are coping. You just gotta keep talkin' to me, and we'll be okay,"

"I'm only just here, Van,"

"Yeah, 'cause of me, so while I'm here it's okay,"

"God, that's so much fucking pressure to have though! It's not fair!"

"I'd rather be in my position than feel how you do."

You realised then that he understood something nobody else did. Yes - looking after someone with a mental illness was easily one of the hardest things to go through, to live with, but having a mental illness was incomparably harder. He believed you when you said you couldn’t move your body, or that it physically hurt to have to make decisions, or that you wanted to die. And to him, there was nothing worse than that, so looking after you was the least he could do.

As he put his head back on the hospital bed and looked up at you with that still somehow hopeful expression, you knew you had to try just a little fucking harder. If you couldn't bring yourself to fight for your own life, maybe you could fight for it for Van; as stupid and cliche as it sounded. 

…

It would be good if you could say it was as easy as booking an appointment with a doctor and getting a referral to a psychologist, but it wasn’t. You went to three clinics before one treated you the way you needed to be treated. You met with six different psychologists before you met one that didn't make you feel like a complete fucking mess of a person, even if that is how it was at the start.

Over time though, you managed to get a handle on things. The first step was simple behavioural therapy - learning coping strategies and breathing techniques to keep yourself calm and on track. Eventually you could complete normal tasks and home, and leave the house more. You started to volunteer at an animal shelter three times a week, and you thought maybe a part time job was the next step.

The therapy sessions stepped up, and you started to unpack all the hurt. It was like performing full open fucking body surgery on yourself. No anaesthetic. You were wide awake and in pain as you had to pull out all the disgusting, slimy, rotting parts of yourself. You disentangled them from the rest of you, and left them on the table of the psychologist's office. Slowly, you stitched yourself back together with the thread that Van and Kasey made for you in their little and grand acts of kindness, compassion, and love.

You probably would never be completely okay. After a lifetime of being unwell, it was hard to imagine yourself without that dark edge. The point though was to figure out adaptive and healthy ways to live side by side with it. And with bright-eyed Van at your side, it seemed like an achievable thing for the first time ever.


End file.
